Close at Hand
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Oscar gets home late from a work trip. M for chapter 1, T for the rest.
1. Chapter 1

[For some background on this story, please feel free to read _I've Been Dreaming of a Future that Looks like Our Past_ , but it's not totally necessary.]

 **A/N** : _I have left this life and been reincarnated... As #joscartrash. I would say I'm ashamed, but honestly I'm not. I adore them so, **so** much, and this might be my favorite thing I've written in a really long time. So please enjoy! :D_

* * *

When he finally made it home from the airport, it was well after one in the morning, and he was so exhausted that he hardly made it up the two flights to their apartment. After he stepped inside, he left his bags by the door, not wanting to carry them all the way to his bedroom, and took off his coat and boots. He knew Jane would be asleep by now, and Anthony put to bed long ago, and he didn't want to make any noise that would wake either of them unnecessarily. As quietly as he could, he headed towards the back of their apartment, moving through the dark, familiar space as easily as if it were lit. And for once, there were no toys to trip over. A rare blessing.

Their bedroom was dark when he opened the door, but Jane had left the shades partially open, and so he could just make out her dim shape beneath the covers, lying curled on her side. He smiled a little at the dark mess of hair obscuring her face as he stripped out of his travel clothes and pulled on a pair of shorts to sleep in. He eased into bed carefully, trying not to wake her, taking his customary spot on the right side. He watched her back for a moment—she was curled away from him, towards the window—and he smiled. It was good to be home, finally. Even if it had taken all day to get here. He bent forward, pressing as quick a kiss as he could manage to her shoulder—which, after a week apart, was not very quick—but she didn't wake at the touch, and that was all that mattered. He lay back and closed his eyes in deep contentment. He could already feel sleep coming when—

"You said you'd be home for dinner, Oscar."

He opened his eyes, trading one dark for the other. He was not surprised she was awake. After all these years together, he had learned to be caught off-guard by her.

"I know I did," murmured, turning to her. Her back was still to him. He reached out, brushing a few fingers along the knobby line of her spine, hidden beneath the thin fabric of an old tank top. "I'm sorry. The flight got cancelled, I called—"

"Ant missed you during dinner."

He closed his eyes again. He hated hearing that, hated the reality of it. Hated that even if it wasn't actually his fault he wasn't here, it was still _his fault_. His fault for leaving. His fault for not being back on time. "I'm sorry," he whispered, an edge of pleading entering his voice now. "I tried, but there were no other—"

"And I missed you after dinner."

He blinked at the change in conversation, and felt the guilt melt away as a smile spread over his face. Suddenly feeling a bit more awake than exhausted, he scooted towards her beneath the covers. Wrapping an arm around her middle, he tugged her back against him. "Missed me, did you?" he whispered in her ear, pressing a warm kiss to her neck. "Hm?"

He felt her shiver beneath him with satisfaction, and he was about to roll her over onto her back, when his fingers brushed against something else.

"Hey now," he pretended to complain, even as his smile widened to joyous proportions. "There's an interloper in my bed. What's this kid doing here?"

Jane smiled, looking down at the little boy nestled into her chest and stomach, fast asleep. She turned to her husband, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She squeezed his arm. "He got worried you were never going to come home. He wanted to be here in case you did."

Oscar closed his eyes. "Aw, Jesus, Jane..."

"It's okay," she whispered, cupping the side of his face. "I told him you'd be back. I told him you always come back."

He ducked his head in gratitude, and kissed her gently on the lips. "Thank you," he whispered against her mouth. "Thank you."

She was smiling and her eyes were bright when she pulled back. She ran a hand through his travel-messy hair, brushing it into some semblance of order. She could tell from the way it stuck up in odd places that he'd been tugging on it during the day, trapping it in furious, helpless fists. She patted it down gently with a smile. Then she let her hand slide around his neck, and drift down his bare chest.

"How thankful are you?" she asked softly. Her hand lowered, and her head dipped closer. "It's been a week," she breathed against his jaw, trailing kisses against the hard line of bone, loving the scratch of the six days' growth that had appeared there during his absence. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," he murmured back, tilting his head to recapture her lips with his. When he twisted a hand in her hair, he felt a moan vibrate from her lips to his, and he pulled her closer. "So much," he breathed, breaking their kiss to latch his mouth onto the thin skin of her neck, and the birds tattooed there. "More than you can imagine..."

"Good." There was a hint of self-satisfied mischief in her voice, and it made him look up. She was scheming; he could see it. She smiled, though, and kissed him quick on the lips. "Stay here, then. I'll put Ant to bed."

She started to sit up, to reach for their sleeping son, but he held her back.

"Let me. Please?"

She nodded at once, letting go, and watched as he got out of bed and came around the room. Just as he neared, Jane gently shook their three-year-old awake. The boy mumbled tiredly, his little eyes blinking awake to the sight of his mother's face.

"Anthony," she whispered, brushing his brown hair away and kissing his forehead. "Wake up, sweetheart. There's somebody here to see you. Somebody special, who came from a really far ways away, just to say goodnight."

Groggy, it took the little boy a moment to come back to earth. He focused on his mother first, squinting in the dark, trying to put the pieces together. When she pointed and whispered, _Look there,_ he turned his head, and then he all but launched himself into the arms of the man crouched beside the bed.

"Papa!"

"Hey, Ant," Oscar smiled, catching his son easily as he flew through the air. "I've missed you, bud. How're you doing? How was your week?"

The boy didn't say anything, simply wrapped his arms tight around his father's neck, and hugged him close. Oscar caught Jane's eye and smiled over their son's little shoulder, mouthing _Be right back,_ as he hoisted him up into his arms and then got to his feet. "I heard you missed me, hm?" Oscar murmured, heading to the door. "But I bet you had lots of fun with Mama while I was gone, right?"

Against his chest, he could feel his son nod. The boy's grip—surprisingly strong for such a young kid—didn't loosen as they left the bedroom. In the dark, Oscar headed down the hallway, towards Anthony's room on the other side of the apartment. He was just opening the door when the little voice buried into his chest spoke.

"Mama said your plane couldn't fly."

Oscar nodded, picking his way carefully through his son's room. He'd found all the scattered toys he'd missed earlier, and he did his best not to trip over any of them on his way across the room. "Mama was right," he said slowly, focusing on making his way through the minefield in the dark without falling. "My plane couldn't get off the ground. There was too much snow in Chicago."

"It was buried?"

He smiled, "For a bit, actually, yes. But then they cleaned it off, and it got in the air, and I flew home."

"Even with the snow?"

"Mm-hm," Oscar murmured, pulling back the sheets of his son's little bed with one hand, and cradling him close with the other. "Even with the snow," he confirmed, laying the boy down in his bed. He crouched by the side of it after Anthony had been settled, and reached out to touch a couple fingers to his son's little cheek. The boy's eyes were already closing, but Oscar smiled anyway. He'd missed this the last six days: the simple pleasure of putting his son to bed, of watching him drift off in peace and security. Oscar pressed a kiss to the crown of his son's head. "Night, Anthony," he whispered. "I love you, kid."

The boy was already too far gone to reply, but that was fine. Oscar watched him for a moment more, watched him breathe and exist and live, and then he finally got to his feet. He crossed the toy-strewn room carefully, and paused one last time at the door for a final look at his son, a final moment of thanks. Then he shut the door, and stepped out into the hall.

Jane was sitting up in bed, waiting, when he came back in. She had her knees pulled to her chest, and her hands wrapped loosely around them. He smiled when he saw her cheek resting on her knees; she looked tired, and he felt a rush of gratitude that she'd stayed up for him. He knew this last week, being a single parent while also working full-time, must not have been easy.

"You didn't have to wake him for me, you know," Oscar said, closing the door behind himself. "I could've carried him back asleep."

"I know," Jane nodded. "But I wanted to. I wanted to see his face when you appeared out of nowhere," she confessed, cracking a smile, and he grinned back. He made his way to bed, and slid in beside her beneath the sheets. "He loves you so much, you know," Jane whispered, looking over at her husband. "He missed you like crazy while you were gone."

Oscar smiled a little at the hoarseness in her voice, and came up to sit beside her. "Well, I'd hope so," he joked, trying for levity. "After all, he _is_ my kid—" his eyes cut to her, his voice lowering "—unless we need to have some sort of talk?"

It worked: she laughed a little, and leaned into him. "No talk," she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder. "That boy is all yours, head to toe." He smiled, and pressed a kiss to her hair. Then her forehead, then her lips. The last kiss deepened, and she turned to him as it did, moving into his lap as he spread his legs to make room for her. She tangled a hand in his hair to hold him to her—as if he would ever want to pull away—and pushed herself against him.

"I've missed you like crazy too," she whispered, trailing her other hand down his abdomen. He groaned, low in her ear, when she slipped a hand beneath his shorts and touched him. " _Really_ missed you," she whispered, tightening her grip as he swore, and rose automatically into her touch.

"Jane..."

He watched, able to do little more than lie there and shake beneath her, as she touched him and trailed kisses down his chest. He swore again as she began tracing the definition of his abdominal muscles with her tongue.

"Christ, baby..." He tipped his head back, letting it smack against the headboard behind him, but hardly even noticing the pain. His eyes flickered closed. "Jane..." He lost himself in her touch until he felt her go too far, until he felt her pull his shorts away and duck down...

"Hey." He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her up. "No, no, no... Not tonight. I was the one that was late. Let me—"

"Don't care," she whispered quickly, "I want you," but he pushed her gently away, and onto her back away, letting her slim body fall back against the mattress. She sighed at the soft impact, watching as he moved to kneel above her. She reached out, cupping the backs of his thighs with a smile as he situated himself over her waist.

"Hi," she whispered, looking up at him.

He smiled, touching her hands with his. "Hi," he whispered back. He bent low over her, supporting himself with one arm as he kissed her slow and deep on the lips. "I'm sorry the flight got cancelled," he murmured between kisses, "I'm sorry I was late and missed dinner. I'm sorry—"

She slid a hand up between their mouths, blocking them from touching, and him from talking.

"Shh," she whispered. "You're here now." She tipped her head back to look him in the eye. "And I'm happy your plane landed safely, no matter how late it was."

"Me too," he mumbled against her hand. "But can I say sorry for one more thing?" His hands drifted down her sides, and she smiled with anticipation as he played with the hem of her tank top.

"One more thing," she allowed.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to be with you after dinner."

She smiled, lifting herself up off the mattress as he pushed her tank top up. "It's still after dinner," she reminded him, grabbing the rest of the shirt, pulling it over her head, and tossing it to the floor.

He fell back to her, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth as her arms wrapped around his back. He could feel the power there, the desperation, in the way she held him, and he pressed himself closer, kissed her deeper. No matter how many times he left and came home, or how many times she left and came home, the return was always like this: heightened by bone-deep relief of seeing the other still alive, regardless if they'd been apart for a weekend or a week and a half. The old scars never quite did disappear, and despite all the years that had passed, neither of them forgot how lonely it had been, before, when they had been without the other.

She mumbled softly in protest when he pulled his lips from hers, and began trailing kisses down her chest, but when his hands started tugging at her pajama bottoms and underwear, she fell silent save for a soft sigh. She lifted her hips, and he pulled the rest of her clothes off, and then he ducked down between her bare legs, faster than she could remember, or even comprehend.

"Oh, God..." She moaned, arching her hips up from the bed when he touched her for the first time in a week as if it were for the first time ever.

He smiled, easily fitting a finger inside her, and brushing his thumb through her warm, wet arousal with pride. "You _have_ missed me," he whispered, as if it were a revelation. As if she could've been lying.

"Of course I've missed you," she replied, tipping her head forward to catch his eye from where she laid spread out before him. There was a flash of mischief in her green eyes again; he caught a glimpse of it sparking through the dark. "I mean come on, it's been six days you've left me to my own devices."

"Your own devices, huh?" He grinned, his head peeking out from between her thighs as he ran a hand up her side. "And what devices would those be, dear?"

She smiled, lying back. "Make up for your absence, and maybe I'll tell you."

"Maybe you'll show me."

"Ha!" She laughed. "If you're lucky."

"Oh, I am. I'm very, very lucky," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her leg before ducking back down and letting his tongue join his fingers in the quest to do as she asked, and get what they both wanted. She moaned at the touch, her whole body rising to him as he lapped his tongue at her wetness and stroked his fingers inside her. He went slow, moving at a pace that he knew was infuriating for the sole reason that he needed to: it had been six days, and he was not going to rush this like they were out of time. He would not act like that with her anymore.

Still, her hands gripped his shoulders and her nails dug in and her legs did their best to drag him closer, as if they only had moments before it would be over. Even as she tried her best to undermine him, he smiled at her efforts, and rewarded her—a sharper thrust there, a harder suck here. When he circled her clit with his tongue and applied pressure, she cried out loud, her whole body arching up as if she were coming—though they both knew she wasn't there yet.

"Hush," he whispered in warning, though he was grinning, and his eyes were bright from where they hid between her thighs. "Don't wake the little one, now."

"He'll— _Oh!_ —He'll be fine. He's slept through louder."

"He certainly has." Oscar's warm chuckle between her legs sent her writhing, and earned him a sharp dig in the side with her foot.

He took it in stride, and paid her back by burying his face between her legs, and driving her so far and fast to the edge that she was panting in seconds—only to feel him pull away the moment she was about to tip over the edge. She clenched her thighs, both in an effort alleviate the stress he was putting on her, and to trap him there. Her eyes stared down at him— _You're not getting out of this_ , they promised—and he pressed a few soft kisses to the length of her vagina. As if they had only just started. As if she were a virgin, and a scared one at that.

"Don't do this to me," she growled, panting, pushing her hips hard into his face. "Enough with the teasing, Oscar, please. Make me come. It's been a week, I need—"

"It has been a week," he agreed calmly. A smile spread across his face as he propped his chin up atop one of her thighs, the picture of repose. "And if I want to take my time and savor what I've missed, I'm gonna take my time and savor it. Understand?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I hate you," she bit out, kicking his steely side a little harder than necessary. "I really hate you."

He chuckled. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that." He dipped a hand between her thighs and drew a glistening trail of desire up the middle of her body, from her stomach to the rise of her chest. "I'll just leave the evidence to the contrary right here, all right?"

"Oh, fuck me," she breathed, her breasts heaving as she watched.

He smiled, caught her eye: "Soon. I promise."

Then he ducked his head between her legs, and for a while, all she could do was watch the mess of hair atop his head bob and shift as he lapped at her and teased and sucked and pushed. He went deep and slow and fast and hard, varying it every couple seconds to keep her forever on the edge of being satisfied.

Finally, when he got her to the point where she was nothing more than a whimpering, gasping body desperate for release, he allowed it. He pushed his fingers inside her one last time, twisted his tongue around her clit, and listened with utmost satisfaction to the cry she gave off, and the way she broke apart and flooded his mouth and hand. He closed his eyes, holding on hard to her hips as she spasmed, doing his best to capture every drop, to drink in all that he had missed in the last six days. He could feel her rocking beneath him, could hear her whimpering and mumbling, and he had visions of what it had been like, when he'd been gone. How she had touched herself, thinking of him. How she had imagined herself, lying beneath him like this, or on top of him, or beside him.

He lost himself so deep in his own fantasies of her fantasies that it wasn't until she pulled on his ear that he looked up.

"Hm?" He felt groggy, drugged, even though he wasn't the one that had just had an orgasm.

She smiled, running a finger along the delicate curve of his ear. "I just wanted to say I love you," she whispered. She was still breathing hard—and her face was so beautifully flushed from the exertion—and he smiled. Out of all the _I love you_ s, this was always the best: her, in the aftermath of his touch.

"Love you too," he whispered back. He pressed a kiss to the tops of either of her thighs, listening to the soft whimper she gave off as he crawled his way up her body. She was sensitive, he knew, so soon after coming. Nonetheless, he pressed himself against her, just so she could feel.

Her eyes closed, and she moaned softly at the rigid touch against her stomach.

"Oh, I've missed you," she whispered into the air between them. "I want you."

He grinned, and kissed her on the mouth. "You'll have me. When you can breathe properly again, that is."

She pinched him on the shoulder for that, and he retaliated by pulling her close for a kiss. She allowed it, turning on her side so they could face one another. She wrapped one arm around his back, keeping him close, and trailed another down his naked chest. She liked the damp sheen of sweat she could feel there. She loved how much effort he put into her pleasure, as if every time was the first time all over again, and he wanted— _needed_ —to prove himself worthy and loyal.

"You must be tired," she whispered when their lips parted. "From the trip, I mean," she added with a chuckle, lest he think she were implying something else. She touched his chin gently. "I'm sorry you were stranded out there all day."

He shook his head. "It's okay. Nothing to worry about now." He brushed some hair out of her face, and bent to kiss her gently. "As for being tired…" He ran a hand down her side, and around the curve of her ass. She started a moment when he hitched her leg up around his hip. "I'm not too tired, no." He pulled back to smile at her, to kiss her nose, her forehead, her hairline. "What about you?" he murmured. "Have enough left in you to welcome your travel-weary husband home?"

She smiled and nodded, taking his chin in her hand to pull him close for a kiss. "Always," she whispered against his lips. He kissed her back slowly, and maneuvered her until she was lying down again, and looking up at him. She watched his face as he took off his shorts and readied himself, and slipped in between her spread legs.

Her eyes closed as he entered her, and his whispers of _Look at me_ fell on momentarily deaf ears. He waited, sheathed inside her, until she had adjusted and looked up. A slow smile spread over his tired face at the sight of her, and she smiled back. He bent down, kissing her on each cheek, on her forehead, on her nose.

"I love you, Jane," he whispered, finally letting their mouths touch.

She mumbled the words back, and when she hooked a hand around his ribcage, and another in his hair, he took his cue to start up. He withdrew and returned, setting a slow, leisurely pace that he knew they both needed. Her earlier impatience had died out with her arousal, and his exhaustion was coming back. This would be slow and steady, not so much a momentous homecoming as an ordinary one. Slow, easy, simple: all things he had never dared to hope for in this life with her. And all things he had somehow gotten.

Though he tried to whisper his love for her as they moved together, she stole his breath and he hardly managed more than a couple words. But she spoke enough for the two of them. Whenever their lips parted, she was whispering his name. She told him how she'd missed him; how she had thought of him constantly in his absence; how she had looked at their baby and been grateful to see the traces of himself he left with her every day.

They were not sad words she was telling him, but they tugged at him nonetheless, and he found himself kissing her more and more, pushing into her more and more, simply to bring them to the end. To remind her that he was here with her, and always would be—that their son was not the only piece of him she had.

He bent down close to her, his thrusts growing faster and more unruly the nearer they got to the end. He could feel her with him, could feel her next orgasm just waiting to trigger his.

"Oscar," she whispered. Her voice broke through his concentration, and he could hear the pleading there, and he did his best to keep going, to get them to the end, to give her what he knew she needed. "Oscar," she whispered again, her voice firmer now. Her nails were digging into his shoulders.

"I know," he gritted out. He was so close—she was too, he could feel it—and all it would take was a few more thrusts and then they'd be gone, spinning, mindless.

"Oscar, I—"

He was so close. They were so close. One more second. He needed to focus. "Jane, just—"

"I want to have another baby."

Everything stopped.

Like a switch had been flicked, or a plug pulled, he froze inside her. His hands went numb around her. His brain stopped working. All he could feel was the pounding of his heart in his chest—somehow so much louder, now, than it had been a moment ago—and the trickle of sweat falling from his forehead down the side of his face. It was going to run into his eye, he knew, but he couldn't move to push it aside. He couldn't do anything.

She was breathing hard beneath him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and for a second, he could see nothing but her in labor all those years ago: her panting, her stomach so big and round, her legs propped up and spread to deliver, her face red and sweat drenched, her voice calling frantically for him, her hands reaching for him...

"Y—You want—You—"

He swallowed, tried to clear his airway, but he couldn't get the words out. He couldn't think. He could hardly even feel. He knew he was inside her still; he knew that he was—or had been—seconds away from orgasming, but there was nothing now. Nothing but her looking at him, and those six words she had just said.

Her chin shook when she tried to smile. Her fingers trembled when they reached for his face. But she said it again.

"I want to have another baby with you."

He closed his eyes.

"I want us to make another child," she whispered. She brushed the sweat away from his eyes, and combed some of his hair behind his ears. "I love you," she whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to his forehead. "And I want to carry your baby again. Please." She bit her lip, pulling back. His eyes were still closed. "Oscar?" she whispered nervously. "Are you listening? What... What do you say?"

"What do I say..." He shook his head, a smile breaking open across his face as he opened his eyes and looked at her. "What do I _say_? What do you _think_ I'm going to say?"

She grinned, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tight, so tight he groaned, but still she didn't let go.

"Oh, I love you," she whispered in his ear, digging her hands into his back. "I love you so much. Thank you. _Thank you_."

He pressed kisses to her neck, her shoulder, her throat—any part of her that he could reach. "I love you too," he whispered back. "Always. Forever."

She smiled, burying her face in his neck. "I like the sound of that," she whispered. Then she pulled back, and kissed him, laid back down against the mattress. He took the cue, and after kissing her one last time, he began to move again within her. He tried to be slow, tried to make it last, but they were both already so far gone that it only took seconds to break apart.

When she came, he muffled her cry and his own by joining their mouths, fusing every part of them together as they shook and collapsed into one another, boneless and overwhelmed.

She gave off a soft cry when he fell down onto her afterwards, but he knew better than to roll off. She had always liked the weight of him, the delicious way it crushed her after they made love in this position, as if they really were molding their bodies into one.

He pressed his face into her hair as he lay atop her, inhaling the smell of her shampoo and her sweat and her desire. He loved the mix of them, in the room, after a night like this. He loved how the physical proof of their love became a cloud around them, cocooning them together. He loved her—plain and simple. But more than that, he loved how she loved him back.

 _I want to have another baby,_ she had said. _I want us to make another child._

Still, minutes later, the words sent a tremor through him. They made his heart pound. They made him wish he could make love with her again, immediately.

As it was, he couldn't, so he did the next best thing. He rolled onto his side, pulled her with him, and lay there holding her. She groaned softly at the change in position—and loudly when he pulled out—but she nestled into him anyway. He bent down, kissing her shoulder, and rubbing a hand over her back. Finally, when his mind was clear and he couldn't wait any longer, he asked:

"Why now?"

"Hm?" She stirred in his arms, rubbing her nose against his chest. "Why now what?"

"Why do you want to have another baby now? Not that I'm saying I don't want that too," he hurried to say when she looked up. "But I'm just curious." He reached out a hand to tuck some of her stray hair behind her ear. "Is it only because I was gone so long? Because you know I can travel less if—"

She shook her head. "That's not it, Oscar."

He looked at her, waiting to hear what it was.

She sighed. "To tell you the truth, I... I've been trying to find a way to talk to you about this for months. I've been trying to find the right opportunity, the right moment, but there was never a good time..." She looked away.

"There doesn't need to be a good time." He reached out a hand to cup her cheek. "Oh, Jane, you could've come to me with this any day; it wouldn't have mattered. I would've always said yes. Of course I would've said yes. We could've—hell, we could've been in a fight, and if you'd said the words, 'I want to have another baby,' I would've dropped my argument and once and begged, _Please, let's_." He bent closer, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. "Jane, come on. You have to know this."

She nodded. "Part of me does," she agreed. "But part of me..." She shrugged weakly. "What can I say? I already have so much from you. I've already asked for so much from you, taken so much, and you've given me everything, _everything,_ and—"

"—and I will continue to give you everything, just as you give to me," he interrupted. "Come on," he chided. "This is how we work, you know that. It isn't about taking and giving, it's about the two of us _together_." He tipped his head at their bedroom door. "It's about that kid down the hall." He smiled, "It's about whatever other kids end up being down the hall."

She looked up, a smile tugging on the corners of her lips. "Yeah?" she whispered. "So let's... Let's try, then?"

He nodded, and bent to touch his lips to hers. "Let's try then."

She took his face in her hands and held him still. He could tell from the rigid way she held herself how badly she wanted to kiss him, but she held back and stared at him. After a second, she whispered, "I am so happy it's you I'm married to," and then, before he could so much as breathe, let alone return the words in kind, she had surged forward and taken his mouth with hers.

He smiled when she rolled him over, rolled him onto his back so that she was kneeling astride him, and then he lifted his hands to cop her hips.

"I think I should leave for long trips more often," he mused against her hungry mouth. "If this is what it gets me when I come home, I might leave for months at a time."

She nipped at his lips, voicing her disapproval for such a plan, and he hugged her close, trapping her within the confines of arms as he lifted himself up into a sitting position. She fell back into his lap, being careful to put her weight in her knees and shins so as not to crush his thighs. They kissed for a few minutes, running their hands over one another, becoming reacquainted as if after a year away.

"Any particular reason?" he asked finally, as their kisses started to deteriorate and they migrated back to laying down by the head of the bed. He took her left hand in his, pressing kisses to her ring finger. She knew what he was asking after, but she waited for him to say the question aloud: "Any particular reason you told me tonight, that you wanted to have a baby?"

She shrugged, yawning. "You finally came home."

"Mm, that I did." He kissed her cheek. "But I'm still curious… If it hadn't been tonight, what would've happened?" His eyes brightened. "Did you have a whole plan? A speech prepared? Candles and a nice dinner?"

She rolled her eyes. "What am I, a Lifetime movie?"

He laughed at the reference; she'd gotten good in the last few years. It wasn't often that she missed one these days.

"No, to answer your many questions," she replied with a smile, brushing her knuckles against his chin as they lay before one another. "I didn't have a plan or a speech or a nice dinner prepared."

He pretended to pout. "Not even candles?"

She shook her head. "Not even candles." She paused a moment, a smile flicking on the edges of her mouth. "If I did, though…"

He leaned forward, intrigued. "If you did?" he pressed.

"Well, it wouldn't be good," she warned him, "so shoo away all the romantic ideas you might have." She thought for a second. "You know, I would like to be able to say that I would've said something about wanting to give Ant a brother or sister, or wanting to give you another child, but..." She caught his eye. "But those would be lies," she whispered.

"How so?"

"Because the truth is, I'm just being selfish again."

He smiled. "Oh, I highly doubt that," he replied. She was the least selfish person he could think of, both in her previous life and in this new one.

"Well..." A smile played on her lips. Her cheeks grew a little redder.

"What?" he pushed, interested now. After all these years, it was rare he ever got to see her blush about anything. When she didn't answer, he tickled her side, listening to her burst with laughter. "Tell me!" he demanded.

"Stop!" She cackled at the strategy, pushing him away, before locking his hands with hers so he couldn't touch. Then she met his eyes. She held them for a long moment before she answered.

"I'm being selfish because..." Her grip loosened, and she threaded their fingers together. "Because I want to feel you inside me all the time."

He closed his eyes, blew out a breath. "Jesus. If I'd needed to come again, that would've done it..."

She smiled. "You will." She ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it where it was already ruffled. "We still have to make this baby, remember. And if I've heard right, it takes lots of trial and error."

He grinned, snaking an arm around her neck to pull her close for a kiss. "Lots and lots."

"Morning and evening."

"Afternoon, too."

"In the shower."

"The laundry room."

"Mm, the kitchen."

"Ooh." He grinned. "Floor or counter?"

She caught his eye. "Why choose?"

He laughed and let her go, leaning over to press a kiss to her shoulder. "How old are we again?"

She smiled, hugging him to her with one arm. "Um, by my last count, thirty-six," she said, pointing to him, "and thirty-eight," she added, pointing to herself.

"I feel like I'm twenty years old, being married to you."

She laughed. "Oh right, except when you have to, I don't know... Do taxes or talk with the insurance company or be a father to your son..."

"Wait—" He pulled away, feigning surprise. "—I have a son? Since when?"

She flicked him in the chest, rolling her eyes. A moment later, she settled back into him. She sighed when he wrapped his arms around her middle, and tipped her head to the side when he lowered his chin to her neck. He kissed her there, slow and soft, for a couple minutes before speaking.

"You know," he murmured, "if we're going to be having sex this much to make this baby, I think we'll need to find a more permanent nanny. Better yet, maybe you and I could take a vacation."

"A sex vacation?" Jane laughed. "Oh, that sounds _very_ responsible."

"Just one week of irresponsibility." He smiled, turning to her. "Come on, we could do it. Take off work, go wherever you want, spend a couple hundred hours in bed..."

"Conveniently just leave our three-year-old behind, for certainly he's big enough to fend for himself now, isn't he?"

Oscar waved a hand. "Oh, Patterson will take the ant. No questions asked. You know how she's always scheming to steal that kid for her own."

Jane grinned, laughing again in his arms, because it was true. They could do exactly that. Take a week off of work, ask Patterson to do a favor that was more like heaven to her, and just disappear, the two of them, to spend a week trying to make another baby.

It sounded perfect—just not the kind of perfect she wanted.

"I want it to be here, though," she whispered, turning to her husband. She rubbed a hand against the side of his leg. "I don't want us to go and fly off somewhere we've never been to make a baby, I want to do it at home." She rubbed her hand against their mattress. " _Here_."

He pretended to pout. "Aw, really? Not on the kitchen floor?"

Jane chuckled, tipping her head against his chest. "Well, I didn't say _that_..."

"Mm, good." He kissed the crown of her head. "You can still be part of my breakfast tomorrow morning then, excellent."

There was a half-second of silence in which nothing was said—and then she burst out laughing, curling into him, her naked body shaking with mirth against his. He chuckled, too, and ducked his head into her neck.

"Promise me something," he whispered.

"Anything," she replied, still grinning, sliding up a hand to cup the back of his neck.

"Make sure you tell me when I get too old to be saying shit like that, okay?"

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to his lips. " _Never_."

* * *

 **A/N** : Wow. Have you died from all the sap yet? I think I have. Anyway, if you have thoughts, hit me upppp. :)


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N** : An unintended follow-up to Part 1. I've been trying to think about what J&O's life would be like (outside of their family) in this AU, and particularly how Jane would interact not only with the team, but—of course—with K. Weller. So, here's a stab at it. Please enjoy. :)_

* * *

When Oscar woke the next morning, Jane was already up and moving around. He groaned, blinking his eyes into the sunlight streaming in through the half-opened shades. The light was bright—too bright—which meant it could only a little after six o'clock in the morning.

"Wha's going on?" he mumbled, rolling over in bed to get away from the blinding light. He caught a glimpse of the time on their bedside clock—6:03—and swore under his breath. They hadn't gone to sleep until after 3 AM last night. It was too early to be awake. There was no reason to be awake.

But there Jane was, on her feet, half-dressed already. As he lay there and blinked through sleep and sunshine, and watched her go through her purse, Oscar frowned. She looked like she was on her way out.

"Where're you going?" he asked, rubbing some of the sleep from his eyes. He looked at the empty space in bed beside him, where she should still be. Where they both should be, sound asleep for at least another half-hour. Or maybe not quite sound asleep, if their discussion from last night still held water...

"Hey." He craned his neck to look at her, feeling a little bit more awake now. "What happened to all that sex we said we were gonna have? You want that baby or not?"

She laughed, eyeing him over her shoulder. "No offense, but you don't look like you could get the job done right now even if I _did_ havetime."

"Oh, shut up," he mumbled, letting his head fall back into his pillow. "I exhausted myself last night—and to _your_ benefit, I might add."

She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears before making her way over to their bed. "I know you did." She bent down and kissed his cheek. "And I appreciate it."

"Where you off to then?" he asked, rousing a bit as she moved away. She wasn't wearing her usual work clothes, he noticed.

She glanced down, too. She was in her old uniform: jeans, light shirt, boots set out to put on. He knew the answer before she even said it.

"The Bureau called."

"Oh." He pushed himself up in bed, peering more closely at her now. His eyes lingered on the tattoos he could see—on her arms, her neck, her hands. "Which one?" he asked.

She pulled up her shirt, pointing to a small circular tattoo on the left side of her stomach. "You don't know this one, do you?"

He shook his head, as they both knew he would. "Sorry," he added with a slight frown. Not for the first time, he wished he had all the answers she was looking for.

When they'd come to the FBI all those years ago, to inform her team of the group and the mission that was quickly spiraling out of their control, Oscar had turned in all the information he knew. He spent weeks in interrogation, going over every little detail he possessed: about her, about who she used to be, about the tattoos, about who had created them and who had inked them and who had the most to gain and the most to lose from their decoding. He told the FBI everything he knew—but he had not known everything. He still did not. That small tattoo on her stomach was just one example.

The calls from the Bureau—out of the blue like this, frantic, hopeful—were not exactly uncommon. Every couple months, she got a call; sometimes it was more often. Sometimes less. Once, they'd gone half a year without seeing a government number on their caller ID. They always had good reason to contact her—she knew the language involved in the case, or she had some background with the suspect or location, or they simply had hit a dead end, and they hoped her now detached (but always shrewd) set of eyes might catch something. He wondered which it was today. He didn't ask—she was in enough of a rush.

"You gonna be there all day?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Knowing these cases, probably multiple days," she sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed as she pulled on socks, and then reached for her boots.

He nodded in understanding. "You called work?"

"They let me go as usual." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Can you take Ant to daycare, though? They need me now, and I don't have time to go uptown—"

He nodded. "Of course." He paused, watching her for a moment, his mouth turning down in a frown. "Call me later, though, will you? If you can do lunch—or dinner? I'd like to see you at least once after you disappear back into the bowels of the Bureau."

"Of course." A frown flickered on her lips, too, as she added, "And I hope I'll actually be home in time for dinner."

"Mm. Lots of that going around recently."

She put up a smile, and after tying her boots, leaned over to squeeze his arm in reassurance. "Love you," she whispered, bending down to kiss him. Then she got to her feet, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door.

"Rain check on all that sex?" he called after her. "Can't get that second kid you want without it, you know."

She grinned, catching onto the doorframe on her way out to keep herself in the room. "Rain check," she agreed. "I promise."

He smiled and waved goodbye, and then stole a few more minutes of sleep before getting up to wake Anthony.

* * *

Reade caught sight of her signing in at the lobby, and checked her in so she could ride up to the twelfth floor with him.

"Been a while!" he called, spotting her across the crowded entryway. Jane turned at the sound of his voice, smiling at his tall, besuited frame. Despite her informal outfits, she had always been appreciative of the professional respect he had for the job, and the way it affected everything from the way he spoke to the way he dressed.

"I saw you and Sarah and Sawyer on Tuesday," she replied as they hugged briefly, and he grinned, acknowledging this with a quick nod.

"It's different seeing you here, though," he replied, checking her through security and leading the way to the elevator bank.

At his side, she nodded. It was always different coming back to the FBI. After having spent months here every single day—and treating it as more of a home than her safe house had been—it was still a little odd to pop in and out as she had been doing these past four or so years.

She glanced at him as they rode up, searching for signs of disappointment or unhappiness or even betrayal. But Reade merely smiled when he saw her looking, and asked after Anthony and Oscar. She gave him the answers: they were good; her husband had just gotten back from a work trip; her son was still obsessed with the garbage pick-up in the mornings—and she almost added something else. She almost added what she and Oscar had decided last night, almost added that Reade might have another member of her family to ask after come a year or two. But then the light behind the number _12_ lit up on the display, and the elevator _bing_ ed open, and there they were, back where it had all started.

The floor had not changed much in the last four years: most of the same people were still around—Reade and Tasha and Patterson and Kurt and Mayfair—and the offices remained exactly the same. All that had changed was her: her comings and goings, her changed body, the ring on her finger, and the life she had outside of the office.

The few new hires since her last trip into the NYO stared as she stepped onto the floor, but she didn't mind so much. She'd sat through the stares for months after she came out of that bag; she'd sat through them again after she'd had Anthony. People will always stare.

She followed Reade down the center of the office, and back into Patterson's lab where the technician was conferring with Kurt over a digital blow-up of the tattoo in question. As Reade walked forward, Jane lingered a bit by the door, taking in the sight of them together, still hard at work. She knew when she left that it would change things, but she was happy this hadn't changed—their dedication to the cases, their need to uncover every last truth, and to protect all the people that they could by doing so.

Patterson glanced up first and spotted her, a warm smile spreading over her kind face. "Jane!" she called happily, setting her tablet aside to rush forward and envelop Jane in a too-tight hug, as usual. "Aw, it's been a while," she sighed into Jane's shoulder, and the tattooed woman couldn't help but laugh.

"That's what Reade said," she smiled, pulling back. "I saw you just a couple weeks ago."

"But that's—" Patterson started to reply.

"—not the same, though," Kurt finished for her.

Patterson stood back, moving to the side as he followed in her footsteps towards Jane. Jane smiled, pulling him into a hug, too. A lighter, less bone-crushing one than Patterson's, but warm and welcome nonetheless.

"Hey," she said over his shoulder. "Good to see you again."

"Been a while," he repeated, like the others, and this time, she did not correct him. Because unlike the others, she had not seen him recently; in fact, the last time she'd seen him had been here, at the office, nearly four months ago. She held him, and tried not to let that sour feeling of loss invade this moment.

Then they let go, and Kurt and Patterson debriefed her and Reade on the next case.

* * *

Jane did not, as it turned out, have much time to break for lunch, but she didn't mind so much. Despite the fact that her husband was welcome on Bureau property, and no longer treated like a criminal, she knew it put a sink in his step whenever he had to come. That only happened _very_ rarely—like when he recognized a tattoo they had called her in to decode. Most of the time, though, they were able to work off the information he had given them all those years ago. But sometimes, a bit of a closer look was required. Luckily, though, that was not the case today.

Nonetheless, Jane called him when the team broke briefly for lunch, just to check up. He was on break, too, thankfully, so she didn't cut into his day. He yawned when he answered the phone, and it made her smile, thinking of the previous night. Already, his week away seemed like an event years in the past.

"How's it going?" he asked once they'd said hello.

She shrugged over her quick salad, as if he were sitting across from her to see. "Slow. Patterson thinks she cracked a number code from the design, and now we're just searching through endless possibilities." She sighed, pushing her food around.

"So… basically they're just waiting for a lightbulb to go off over your head?"

She smiled a little. Of course he understood. "Yeah. They're waiting for a lightbulb." She sighed, "And the electricity just isn't working today."

"You'll get there," he encouraged. "You always do."

She nodded silently. What he said was true—she had yet to meet a case that she hadn't eventually cracked (or helped to crack)—but still, that was hard to remember, let alone believe, when this case had been going nowhere for hours.

She let the conversation drift away from work, and asked him about his day, asked him about Ant, asked him about anything. He laughed when they ended up talking about the weather forecast for the rest of the week.

"Sounds like you should probably get back," he suggested gently.

She sighed, knowing he was right. She had gone on long enough, and there were just scraps left of her food. She should get back to work. Still, she wished she could sit here and talk to him all day. Better yet, she wished she could go back to her real job, and leave all this uncertainty and confusion behind once and for all. There was a reason she'd left the FBI, and every time she returned to it, she was reminded why.

"Go on," he encouraged, sensing her hesitation. "Solving the tattoo will make it all go away faster, you know that."

"I know that," she agreed quietly. Then she whispered her love to him, he returned in kind, and they hung up. The team was already waiting for her when she got back to Patterson's lab, running through a new set of combinations.

* * *

By five o'clock, they were still no closer to figuring out what the numbers meant. (Now, Patterson was convinced, they were supposed to be letters. Or symbols. Or something? Jane had lost track hours ago.) They were all sitting around a table, pouring over combinations and past cases' identifying characteristics, trying to find some connection to latch onto. Each person stuck to their own side of the table, their own year of cases. With four sides to a table and five of them, Jane was sharing a space with Kurt.

It was kind of nice—reminded her of the old days—but whenever they accidentally touched, or she reached over onto his side to check a number, she noticed he stiffened beside her. She tried not to let it get to her; it had been like this between them ever since she'd left the FBI. Ever since they'd stopped being close friends.

Sometimes, during quiet moments where she had too much time to think and was in such close proximity to him, like now, she thought about stopping and talking to him about it. She thought about just having the two of them sit down, clear the air, and either try—or not try—to be friends again. She knew it had been hard for him, incredibly hard, when she'd left the FBI. For a long time, she had thought they hadn't spoken because he'd felt betrayed by her leaving. Abandoned. Left behind to deal with the mess she'd created all by himself. But then he'd come by to visit her in the hospital, just after Anthony had been born, and she'd seen the look on his face.

It had been like that little neighbor girl had disappeared all over again, and then been found all over again, in the span of two seconds.

She had wanted to tell him then—as she still wanted to tell him now—that he should move on. Let it go. She wanted so badly to tell him that whether or not she was Taylor, it didn't matter—it was in the past, like everything else. It wasn't a part of her anymore, if it even ever had been.

But she knew asking him to shed Taylor was like asking her to shed her tattoos. Sure, she could erase them from existence, but the proof would be everywhere: on her recovering skin, in all the old pictures, in all the files at the FBI.

She could still remember, as if from another life, the one time she'd been to his apartment, when they'd been friends, and she'd seen the file he kept on Taylor. She'd been having dinner with him and Sarah and Sawyer. While they'd waited for the meal to be served, he had shown her around the apartment. It had been in a slight state of upheaval, given Sarah and Sawyer's unexpected move-in, and so some things were out of place. One of those things had been Taylor Shaw's police report. Jane had spotted it on top of a stack of books that had lost their bookcase. She had not said anything at the time—and given how that dinner ended, she had never said anything afterwards—but it had stuck with her.

She knew if she were to go back to his home and search through it right now, she'd find that file, probably in a place of reverence. She knew he wouldn't have let it slip away, like he let her—both versions of her—slip away.

In the end, she said nothing, as usual. But she was careful to keep to her side of the table as they worked.

* * *

"Are you sure you want to stay?" Patterson asked an hour and a half later. She had her hand over the phone; the delivery guy was waiting. "Because you know you don't have to. You can go home; you can be with your family. We'll see you tomorrow."

But Jane shook her head. Despite the discomfort she sometimes felt while at the Bureau, her old loyalty to the team ran deep, and surpassed everything else. "If you guys are staying late, I'm staying late." At the frown on Patterson's face, she added, "It's okay, I don't mind. And besides—Oscar just had a week without Ant; I'm sure they both want some time together."

"I'm sure they both want time with _you,_ too," Patterson pointed out quietly.

Jane smiled, and met the blonde's kind eye. "Thank you," she whispered. Then she pushed the take-out menu towards her. "Can you get me some pad thai, please?"

* * *

Reade and Kurt didn't eat with them, preferring to catch whatever game was on in Kurt's office instead of sitting around the table in Patterson's lab. Usually Tasha would be with them—never one to miss a televised sporting event, that woman—but her team was already out of the running for whatever championship was going on, and she was too bitter to watch the other teams play.

The boys had barely left to watch the game, and Jane had only just opened her container, when the yawning started. She shut her eyes as the first one ripped through her, lifting up a hand to stifle the noise. She'd done her best to beat back this coming exhaustion all day, self-medicating with coffee and caffeinated tea on and off, but now, it had finally come to hit her.

As Patterson focused on transferring her curry to a plate without spilling anything, Tasha caught Jane's eye with a grin.

"Late night last night, huh?"

Jane rolled her eyes—the teasing from Tasha was not new—but in light of the previous night, she could still feel her cheeks heat a bit at the suggestion. She buried her face in her take-out container, muttering, "Just tired, Tash."

Zapata nodded along, taking a bite of her noodle dish. "And the husband?" she asked once she'd swallowed. "Is he—Oh, let me guess— _just tired_ , too?"

"Tasha," Patterson complained through a mouthful of rice. "I'm _eating_. Come on. Stop it."

"What?" Zapata shrugged innocently. "It was just a question."

"I'm sure he's tired, yes," Jane answered, doing her best to sound as annoyed as possible (which wasn't hard) so Zapata wouldn't notice anything else. "Anthony was up late last night," she added without thinking.

In a second, the entire atmosphere around the table shifted. Patterson stopped eating; Zapata dropped her fork.

"Is he okay?" Patterson rushed to say, rising out of her chair. "What happened? Was he—"

"Is it his lungs?" Zapata cut in. She reached for her purse, digging out her phone. "You know my cousin works at St. Mary's, I can call and get you an appointment as soon as—"

"No, no, no," Jane hurried to say, reaching out for both of them. She squeezed their hands gently, even as she wanted to hit herself over the head for her comment—she knew better than to drag Ant into these sorts of things. They had all been there at his months-early birth; they all worried for him. He was healthy now, but he would likely always be small; he will always have been born premature. And they will always worry, as she will. "He's fine," she assured them both, looking each of her old coworkers in the eye. "He just—" The truth sounded so trivial now, almost stupid. "He wanted to wait up for his dad, is all."

"Oh." Patterson blew out a breath, and reached for her water. "Well, that's nice."

Zapata put her phone away, and closed her eyes for a moment, calming down.

"I didn't mean to worry you guys," Jane said quietly. "You know I would've said something earlier if anything had happened—"

Patterson nodded, laying a hand on her arm. "We know, Jane. It's just a gut reaction with him." She tried for a smile, and Jane did too. "He was up late, though?" Patterson asked a second later. "I thought you said Oscar's plane got back at four."

Jane sighed, taking a bite of her dinner. "Yeah, it should've. But there was a storm in Chicago, so he got stuck... Didn't make it home until one AM."

"Jesus," Patterson muttered, shaking her head in commiseration.

"Ah..." The smug smile had crept back onto Zapata's face. "So that means _you_ didn't get to sleep until... What? Three in the morning? Four?"

"Four in the morning?" Jane rolled her eyes. "Tasha, what do you think we are, teenagers? We didn't have sex for three hours straight."

Zapata feigned offense. "Why Jane, who said anything about sex! I was merely implying that you two were having a very long and involved heart-to-heart talk. You know, discussing _married people things_."

Jane rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to reply, but then her phone chimed. She reached for it, glad for the distraction, and was greeted by a series of pictures from the man in question.

The first one was of a pile of uncooked spaghetti noodles scattered on the floor. The next was of a spill of what looked like tomato sauce all down the side of the counter. Another was of a shattered plate on the floor, with cooked spaghetti and sauce spreading out from its place of impact like a gruesome bull's-eye. The last was of their son, his face, clothes, hair, and the table in front of him entirely smeared with food.

The text at the end read, _For some reason I thought spaghetti would be a good, no-stress idea._

Patterson snorted when Jane showed them the photos. "Idiot."

"Trade him in for a newer model," Zapata added. "I hear they make husbands with brains nowadays."

Jane laughed, relaying the message. He texted back a picture of himself scowling at the insult. Followed by: _Tell Zapata she's never allowed to come to our house again_. And then: _That goes for you, too. I've never said this before, but please don't come home until I've finished cleaning. Please._

Jane smiled, texting back an acknowledgment. She was just reaching for her purse, to put her phone back, when it chimed again.

"What's he done now?" Patterson grinned, leaning over her shoulder to look. "Burned the house down by lightning a tea candle?"

Jane shook her head, recognizing the sound even before she read the alert; she reached instinctively into the zippered pocket of her purse. "It's just my birth control alarm. I—"

It was only when she took the small package out of its case, and saw all the little pastel-colored pills in their orderly rows, that she realized. She didn't have to take it. She wouldn't have to take it for months. A year. She could stop taking it now and she and Oscar could start trying as soon as they wanted. She ducked her head down, feeling a smile carelessly spread across her face.

"You need water or something?" Tasha asked at her hesitation. She passed her cup. "Here, if you're out."

But Jane shook her head. "No, I'm..." She looked up. "I'm fine, Tasha. I just remembered—I don't have to take it right now."

Zapata shrugged, taking her water back. "Did you switch your schedule around or something?" she wondered, turning back to her meal.

Jane shook her head. "No." She took a quick bite of her food to buy herself time. She didn't want to lie to them, but then again, what did she have to say? Sure, her and Oscar had decided, but it wasn't like they had anything to announce. It wasn't like—

" _Oh my god_!" Patterson jumped to her feet, her entire face lighting up with possibility. "Oh my god—really? _REALLY_? Are you guys actually—"

Jane forced herself to swallow before looking up. And then she couldn't help it—the excitement on Patterson's face could not be denied. Jane nodded in confirmation of Patterson's hopes, and then let herself be engulfed in the biggest hug she'd received since Anthony had been conceived. Patterson jumped up and down with joy as she held Jane, chanting, "Baby, baby, baby! Another _baby_! Oh, this is the best news…"

When the blonde finally let go, Jane turned and found herself in another hug. She smiled as Tasha wrapped her arms around her and held her tight, too. Jane closed her eyes, resting her chin on Tasha's shorter shoulder. She could feel Tasha's cheek against hers, her hands holding tight.

And then her voice in her ear: "I _knew_ you were tired today for a reason. You can't slip anything by me, Doe. Never have, never will."

Jane pulled away, pretending to push Tasha off, but she couldn't stop grinning. She pulled Tasha in again, and held her tighter this time. As much as she loved Patterson, and her endless enthusiasm and love, there was something about Tasha's dry wit and sober outlook that had always meshed well with Jane. She was not the one to go to when things were bright and sunny and you wanted to pick colors for a nursery or plan a wedding, but she was invaluable in the darker times.

And Jane would always love Tasha for that.

She would always love her for the way she had looked at Oscar the first night they'd come into the FBI with their story: the way she'd stared at him long and hard, and then turned to Jane and said nothing more than, _Well. At least he's got a good head of hair_. All the others had been ready to lock him up, ready to call in every interrogator they knew to trap him up in his story, to catch him out in a lie, to put him away. But Tasha had been one of the few—the _only_ , for a time—that had trusted Jane's judgment in him implicitly and believed her when she vouched for him. The others had to be brought into understanding, had to be convinced. But Tasha had been around criminals all her life, practically since the moment she'd been born; she could smell them the way a dog could smell meat. She had taken one look at Oscar and deemed him worthy, and Jane would be forever grateful to her for it. They wouldn't have gotten through all those weeks of interrogation without her quiet belief in their truth. Without Tasha, they might not even be married; they might not have Ant.

"Thank you," Jane whispered in her old partner's ear. "Tasha, thank you."

* * *

By eight PM, Weller called off the hunt for meaning in the yet-to-be-decoded tattoo, and told them all it was time to turn in for the night and head home. Jane was quietly grateful—and quietly embarrassed. She knew if she hadn't been here, the team would've toiled late into the night. In fact, they might've spent the evening at the Bureau, working right up until dawn. But she had a young family to get home to. He didn't have to, but he always took her into account, always counted her as part of the team—if he was letting one off, he'd let the rest go, too.

As the others headed back to the locker room to get their things, Jane ambled over to the elevator bank, moving slowly for a reason she couldn't quite comprehend herself. She had texted Oscar a moment ago, saying she was on her way, and while she wanted nothing more than to be home right now, she also didn't want to leave the Bureau. This always happened at the end of her short visits—she got back into the swing of things, back into that old life, and she had trouble transitioning. It was easy, once she was in the presence of her husband and son. But without them, this office started to feel like the only home she'd ever have again.

She had just hit the button for the elevator when she heard a pair of footsteps come up behind her. She turned, seeing Kurt appear by her side. She smiled reflexively, and then in surprise—he was alone. She would've expected he would continue to use the team to cloak himself from her, as he had been all day.

"Hey there," he called quietly, coming to a stop beside her.

"Hey."

She waited, but he said nothing else. For a minute, they watched the elevator before them, willing it—or not willing it?—to rise faster.

He broke the silence.

"So… I heard you guys are trying again."

Jane couldn't help but laugh, rolling her eyes. "Oh, wow. So I see nothing's changed since I left. Everyone still knows my private business, great."

"Sorry, we are the FBI. Can't help it." He caught her eye, smiling a little. "Also," he added, lowering his voice as if in confidence, "I did nearly go deaf from Patterson's shouting, so there's that, too…"

"Jesus." Jane shook her head, chuckling, just as the elevator arrived. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though." She stepped onto it, turning to say goodbye, but was quietly pleased when Kurt followed her on.

He hit the lobby button for both of them, and then the lift started to descend.

"I just wanted to say... Good luck. I hope—you know, I hope it works out."

Jane took his encouragement at face value, and offered him a warm smile for it. He didn't have to do this, she knew. He didn't have to get in an elevator with her, didn't have to pretend like they were still such good friends after all the time apart. But she loved that he was trying. It made her wonder if maybe all her attempts to connect with him over the past few years hadn't all been in vain.

"Thanks, Kurt," she replied. "Ant was a bit... unexpected, to say the least. So it'll be interesting to wait and see what happens this time."

"Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?"

"Hm. I hadn't thought about it, actually. But I guess… I guess I wouldn't mind either." She smiled into space, thinking of her son. "I'd love another boy, though."

"Ha! Said no mom ever."

She laughed. "What? He's a good one."

"Yeah, I know he is."

She glanced over at him, warmed by the genuine smile she could see on his face. The lift was slowing to a stop. They'd be in the lobby soon, and then out on the street, and then off on their separate ways.

"Hey, Kurt, do you... maybe want to come by for dinner sometime and see him? It's been at least a year or two, hasn't it?"

"Oh." Kurt blinked at the invitation, caught off guard. "Well, I—"

"Before you say no," she hurried to interrupt, "I'll probably invite the whole team, if that's easier. It doesn't have to just be you and us—"

He looked down as the lift shuddered to a stop. He pulled on his ear with one hand; he did that when he was nervous or embarrassed, she remembered. "Jane, that's not necessary," he said quietly.

He stepped off the lift, and she followed him. The lobby was empty save for the usual security guards at their stations.

"It's not necessary because it's not necessary, or it's not necessary because you aren't going to come either way?"

He sighed, caught. "Look, Jane—"

She was pressuring him, she knew, but she couldn't help it. He was the one that had climbed in the elevator with her, after all. He was the one who had offered her luck. She was tired of him picking and choosing the parts of her life he wanted to be a part of. She couldn't be Taylor for him, and she couldn't be that lost, nameless woman for him anymore, either. She couldn't spend hours alone with him rediscovering herself anymore. That wasn't who she was, and that wasn't who they were; he needed to accept that, and adapt. Or at least he needed to stop trying to recreate the old.

"I understand if you're uncomfortable," she continued as they headed out to the front doors. "But it would be really nice to see you for reasons other than helping with a tattoo you can't decode. It would be _great_ to see you more frequently than every six months." The doors were feet away. She could swear his pace was quickening beside her. She grabbed lightly onto his arm before they could reach the exit. "Look. I know I can't be Taylor anymore for you, and I know that must be hard, after everything you've lost—"

He stopped walking. "Jane—"

"—but I would love it if we could actually try, as adults, to be friends again. Not you and lost-and-found Taylor or me and Agent Weller, but... Jane and Kurt." She looked up at him, hope in her eyes. "We were friends, right? Before?"

His expression softened. "Jane, of _course_ we were friends."

She smiled a little, relieved that he could admit even that much. It was a positive sign. "Good." She squeezed his arm. "So you'll try for dinner? Just _try_ ," she stressed, when she saw him looking away. She dropped her hand and added, "Besides... Neither Oscar nor I have siblings, you know. So the only people Anthony's got for uncles are Reade and Borden." She raised her eyebrows when he turned back to her. "C'mon," she deadpanned. "You really gonna let my son be spoiled by those two? They're _far_ too serious to be any fun. My kid's gonna grow up to be a dork who wears suits at thirteen and picks at people's brains for fun. He's going to get beat up at school. You want him to get beat up at school?"

"Well, I'm sure your husband—"

She leveled him with a flat stare. "Kurt. My husband listens to jazz music for fun. Can we please not pretend like he's the cool guy here? Come on. You're embarrassing yourself."

Kurt cracked a smile, laughing a little. "Okay, okay..."

She waited, poised for the official confirmation.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

"All right," he surrendered finally, shaking his head with a smile as he yielded to her determination. "Give me the date for dinner, tell me what I should bring, and I'll be there."

She grinned, and leaned up on her tiptoes to hug him briefly. "Thanks, Kurt. I'll call you once we settle schedules."

He nodded. "I'll look forward to it."

She watched him go, stepping out into the night with a wave, and she waved back. Even though they hadn't cracked the tattoo case for today—they might not have even come close—it still ended up feeling like a good day. She had set more wrong to rights in the last twenty-four hours than she had in years, both with Kurt and Oscar, and it made her grin, wide and full, as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and started for home.

* * *

 _ **A/N** : Thanks for reading! Reviews would be much appreciated if you have thoughts! As I mentioned, I'm still wading my way through this universe, so some things are very much still a work in progress. Thank you!_


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